


When it rains

by auriadne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blood and Injury, Bottom Sylvain, Feral Dimitri, M/M, Oral Sex, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex, i want to make a joke about sylvain and riding skills but...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auriadne/pseuds/auriadne
Summary: Sylvain needs a lot of things. Right now, Dimitri’s dick is his number one priority. Mercedes’ healing touch might be a close second....In which, Sylvain is injured in the middle of battle and has a terrible idea.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 246





	When it rains

Rain pours, and Sylvain is sure he is going to die.

He plummeted to the ground, shot out of the air in the midst of battle. Branches scraped and scratched, breaking as he tore through the trees. A godsend, really. If he hadn’t gotten caught up in it, he’d be dead on impact. Despite that, his body throbs with the sharp pain of fresh injury. His chest heaves, gasping for air. Broken rib. Has to be. It’s honestly amazing he didn’t break a leg or something more vital in the fall.

He always thought himself lucky. Somehow, managing to scrape by even in worst case scenarios.

It’s how he’s gotten through life and his repeat offense in making terrible choices. This is a new hell, though. Footsteps fall in the grass behind him, setting him on edge. He’s deep in enemy territory having been sent to scout on the Professors orders. Neither of them planned to meet with a slew of archers, incapacitating himself and his wyvern.

_Fuck._

Sylvain wants to curse but settles in a grit of teeth. He feels so fucking useless, barely able to move with shaky limbs and unsettlingly unarmed. Armor clinks, chainmail against steel. A man dressed in the Empire gambeson approaches him sword drawn.

Dammit.

His head thumps back against the tree. Drops of rain roll down his face. What a way to go. Injured, pitiful. He’s not scrambling for his life and making a fool of himself. Not like those Felix shows so much disdain for, hardly deserving of a heroic death. Still, a guy could hope.

Sylvain waits for an impact that never comes.

Instead, he hears a growl, a thud. Blood splatters in hot gore across his face. His eyes shoot open to the man before him skewered straight through the steel of his chest plate. A lance juts through with a strength he finds familiar, if not unnerving.

Is this his luck? It’s more a double-edged sword.

The body of the Imperial soldier falls to the side. It is Dimitri that stands before him, drenched head to toe in that heavy cloak, a dark mass draped around him caked in blood and dirt. It gives him an appearance more beastly than that of a prince.

His tongue is heavy in his mouth. Thanks seems insignificant and likely ill-received given the man’s current state.

“My wyvern was shot down.” Sylvain offers in a broken breath.

Dimitri scoffs. He manages to come off terribly disinterested considering he just saved Sylvain’s life. 

“I’m impressed you’re alive.”

Truth be told, Sylvain is too.

“Call it fate.” He wheezes from the ground, wincing as he tries to pull himself to his feet only managing to support himself against the trunk like a crutch.

“You can’t even stand. Had I not been here you’d be dead.”

“It’s all I can do.” Sylvain says, rather bitterly. Throwing his body into the fray, fighting day in and day out. He puts his life on the line for some fruitless war of ideology waged by stubborn nobles for a mad prince. It’s better than the alternative. He’d rather die for this than stay idle. “I’ll fight like I want to die until I’m worn down to the last bone.”

“Do not be so eager to meet death, Sylvain.” His hand presses to the tree, bark breaking underneath it. His breath hot, humid. _Too close_. He smells of blood, acrid, mixed with fresh rain. He thinks it’s the first time Dimitri has actually acknowledged him since turning up at Garreg Mach- seen him and not the specters of his past.

It’s ironic coming from Dimitri, who has lived so unafraid of death for the past five years. Perhaps, longer than that if Sylvain really thought about it and the burdens he kept hidden during their academy years. It’s a penitence for him. Sylvain, on the other hand, does not shoulder himself with guilt.

“Dimitri-“ He stumbles. “How far out are we?”

“Less than half a day.”

He forces a chuckle, strained and painful. Their situation is such shit. He’s dead weight. Dimitri must realize it too.

Sylvain forces a grin. “Leave me behind, Your Highness. I’ll only-“

“No.” He’s cut off sharply. Dimitri treats it as a non-starter, not even worthy of Sylvain finishing. “I won’t hear you as well. You will not die here. Understand?”

It’s delivered with such a severity that Sylvain can hardly argue.

Thunder cracks. The rain picks up in thick sheets, almost making it hard to see. Sylvain’s eyes sting. Water clings to them, dripping down his face, the taste of his own blood watered down on his lips from a head wound.

“I can hardly move.” He explains. Odd, trying to convince Dimitri to leave him for dead like it’s the most logical decision. It is from a strategic standpoint. It makes him wonder if some of the old Dimitri is left in there, or perhaps had never left.

Wordlessly, Dimitri heaves him up.

The edges of Sylvain’s armor, broken and dented, jab into him. Sylvain grunts, sure the bleeding is worse now. His hand drops from his side coming back red.

Dimitri stares down at the blood. “Take off your armor.” He demands.

Sylvain winces.

“I don’t think I can.”

When he says that his sense of gravity is lost. Dimitri manhandles him effortlessly. Goddess, has it always been that easy for him? He’s never felt this fragile except next to the prince.

His armor cracks. Dimitri’s hand digs deep in to the shell.

Sylvain sucks down a breath. Rain drips from Dimitri’s hair, plastered across his face. He’s focused, surprisingly careful all things considered, as he tears the armor away. It bends gnarled and distorted under his touch, shattering apart when he pulls away the fragments. Sylvain is left in his teal shirt, red bloomed across the fabric.

Dimitri looks at his wounds with an expression Sylvain cannot quite place, but it’s distinctly human. It makes him uneasy, and worst of all inappropriately, and untimely, aroused.

Sylvain wants to smack himself in the face, and he would, if he didn’t think it would exacerbate the concussion he likely has. He’s so fucked. If he doesn’t bleed out on the battlefield first, Dimitri will surely kill him for popping a boner over whatever savior bullshit he is apparently into.

It doesn’t help that Dimitri’s hand grabs his own, pressing it to his side over the wound. He applies pressure. “To stop the bleeding.” He mutters. “We will wait until the rain breaks.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says not really paying attention. Dimitri half carries him. It’s strange. Makes him feel lightheaded, but it might be the blood loss speaking.

Dimitri finds an outcropping, stone carved out of the cliff which gives some refuge. He must be good at finding shelter from the years he spent in the wild ambushing Empire soldiers. It’s cold, but its free of rain so Sylvain will take it. He’s not in the position to be picky.

The rain falls heavy, pelting the grass down under its weight. It feels distant from the battle. Almost quiet. He hopes the others made it out okay. Dimitri sits near him. Far enough that he’s out of reach. Yet Sylvain can feel his stare. It prickles up the back of his neck.

Pain throbs. It radiates through Sylvain’s body, from his head, his chest. His sides- his eyes are heavy when he lulls forward barely catching himself.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Dimitri says, likely realizing the trouble it would cause with his head wound. It doesn’t stop Sylvain from blinking bleary, Dimitri’s form a blur. He seems closer.

“What did I say?” A sharp tug at his hair yanks Sylvain to attention.

His voice falls in a groan, pined from his throat. Dimitri comes into focus. Sylvain watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. His throat is so close. Dimitri radiates heat. Sylvain needs a distraction. From the situation, the pain, to keep him from falling asleep. And Dimitri is so close. Does he realize what he’s tempting? Letting his breath cast warmth across Sylvain’s cold skin, fingers wound tight in his hair.

_He could-_

_It’d be so easy to just-_

This is a bad idea. Sylvain is full of awful, terrible ideas.

Without a second thought, he tears into the matted fur of Dimitri’s collar. He may not be Crest of Blaiddyd strong, but he is no weak man, injured or not, and crashes Dimitri’s mouth against his own. It’s raw. All tongue and teeth, biting and sucking until-

Dimitri jerks away, eye wide with shock. His brow furrows, studying Sylvain.

 _I’m not your enemy._ Sylvain wants to say. To shake it into him, to kiss and fuck him, until he finally has some grasp on reality.

He utters something close to a growl. Almost feral like an animal wounded.

“Dimi-“

“Shut up, Sylvain.” He hisses, and his hand tugs back, leaving Sylvain’s neck exposed. It’s a sting he relishes. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall asleep.” The raw edge to his voice makes Sylvain whine.

“Goddess, fuck, please.”

Sylvain can’t keep his mouth shut, and it’s enough that Dimitri’s is on him quick like the spread of a flash fire. His touch licks pain and heat along his flesh, divesting him of fabric until he’s nearly bare. His chest breaks from the constraints of his shirt. Dimitri’s face burrows into his collar, inhaling his scent deep. His tongue traces his skin in a path of claiming marks up his neck.

Sylvain moans, rolling against the hard friction of armor. The protests of his body go ignored. Distracted by arousal, fresh and invigorating, filling his dick out thick. He starts to rub himself against Dimitri’s unfortunately clothed body.

_He needs-_

Sylvain needs a lot of things. Right now, Dimitri’s dick is his number one priority. Mercedes’ healing touch might be a close second.

Sylvain scrambles, searching. He finds a half-filled bottle of vulnerary. It’s not the worst thing he’s used in times of his less convenient escapades. It’s better than nothing, and fuck, _fuck_ , he needs something to make this work. It tingles when he pours it over his hand. The sensation is strange. Stranger still, when it’s his magic coated fingers he shoves up his ass.

Sylvain croons against Dimitri’s hair, mouth dragging along the shell of his ear. Dimitri puts distance between them, giving himself space to watch him with an almost curious interest. Sylvain’s eyes scrunch, heat flashes across his cheeks, and he lets out a soft pant as he fingers himself. He works quick to stretch himself for Dimitri’s dick.

A hand tugs his cock, causing Sylvain to shoot to attention with a gasp. It slides down his foreskin, pulling with his thumb, crown peeking through flushed and damp.

“Dima-“ He half groans, splayed out across the cold stone. Dimitri leers above him hunger in his eye, and Sylvain has never felt quite so like a sacrificial lamb eager for slaughter.

He spreads his legs. The movement aches, as does the grip of strong hands into already bruised flesh. It doesn’t matter- doesn’t matter at all to Sylvain when it’s his prince’s mouth on him. Dimitri swallows him down. Clearly unpracticed by the uncomfortable drag of teeth along his shaft.

Sylvain could care less. It’s still hot. So fucking hot inside. He rocks himself forward, gently against the protest of his muscles until he’s fully sheathed inside, Dimitri’s mouth more pliable than he anticipated.

His hand curls in Dimitri’s hair, petting it softly to urge him to a steady pace bobbing down on his cock.

“So good,” Dimitri drools around him. Spit drips down his chin. Fuck. _Fuck._ It almost makes him forget. Who cares about broken bones and blood loss when the prince of Faerghus is sucking your dick? “You’re so good for me, Dimitri. I’ll be good for you too. I promise.” He coos, mindlessly.

Dimitri pulls off. A pant is drawn past his lips, and Sylvain almost cries when his weight shifts. His legs are heaved up. It sets him off balance, and his back hits the floor. Ouch. There’s the obvious reminder. Sylvain shivers. A shudder wracks his body when Dimitri buries his face between his thighs. His tongue drags wet over his taint to where he’d been opening himself up.

“Ah-“

His tongue presses to the rim where Sylvain’s own fingers breached his hole. Dimitri forces his hand away and replaces it with the heat of his tongue. He doesn’t object. Its better, and Sylvain is so eager to let Dimitri have his way. His fingers, thicker than Sylvain’s own, slip alongside, and Dimitri pries him open.

Sylvain moans. His dick twitches, pent up, and he juts forward, riding against Dimitris face. The way he devours him- tongue lapping his insides wet with saliva- it’s insanity. More than he can take now with his head already so jumbled. The fingers inside him thrust deep, curling into him. Dimitri hits those nerves that shoot fire in his veins, and Sylvain jumps for his own cock.

“Goddess. Saints. Dimitri. Dima-“

My prince.

_My king._

Sylvain wants to cry.

“Fuck. _Fuck me_.”

He demands. Dimitri raises his head at the sound of his despair. He’s a mess and goddess, it does everything for him.

Dimitri’s gaze narrows. “You’re bleeding again.” He says.

And Sylvain has never been so furious. He shoves himself up despite the ache in his bones and rips through Dimitri’s cloak. It tears with relative ease.

“If you care, tie it.” He snaps.

Dimitri glowers at the order. He almost thinks he’ll tell him to go screw his self in more Dimitri terms. But he doesn’t and instead takes the cloth from his hand. He wraps it around Sylvain’s torso. Against the rawness of his back and the gnarly injuries from his fall.

Dimitri tugs tight. The breath is stolen from him. Sylvain lurches forward. His cock bounces heavy against his stomach. It aches. _He aches_. In dire need of some friction.

The fabric knots tight across his chest, and when he’s done Sylvain surges towards him. He claws at Dimitri’s armor, smothering him with a kiss that feels like it’s tempting fate.

Dimitri groans beneath him. Pleasantly vocal. As he slots himself against the rough planes of armor. Sylvain’s thighs splayed across Dimitri’s lap. He rips at his grieves, his codpiece. His tongue hits teeth, amusement barely hidden.

That cock. If anything’s divinely ordained, it’s a dick like that.

Sylvain balances himself. His arm braces against Dimitri’s chest as he reaches back to adjust himself. All before sinking down.

He hisses, hot, between teeth- gritted and too tense- as Dimitri’s dick breaches him. Sylvain slows his breath, deliberate and steady, when he slides down, but Dimitri has all the finesse of the proverbial boar and thrusts into him. His nails dig into Sylvain’s side, splitting him on his cock. It steals his voice, a gasp punched from his lungs.

Good thing Sylvain is used to breaking in difficult mounts.

His thighs tense, bucking into Dimitri’s brutal rhythm.

He’s so full. It’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s surprising to him that he’s managed to get this far. The blood is stilled for now. The pain he can deal with, and maybe, it’s the adrenaline that keeps him going. Keeps him riding the prince, moaning and whispering affirmations as Dimitri fucks him. Holds onto him with a ravenous desperation he’s yet seen from the man. Like he’s needed, wanted. If only to swath him in the warmth of a comforting body or to be a hole to fuck.

Sylvain won’t complain, he’s the one that jumped Dimitri’s dick first.

His hand curls around the back of Dimitri’s head, tangled in wet hair. Dimitri’s face buries between his chest, nosed against red hair. He mouths and bites. Teeth leave red imprints around his nipples. His tongue laps the skin he’s drawn red. His hands claw at Sylvain’s back to drive him down onto his cock.

It’s the kind of pain, that contrasts so sharply to the trauma his body’s been put through. An inconsequential sting, that reminds him he’s alive.

Sylvain’s own hand drops down. It ghosts across his stomach to grasp his cock. It slides easy in his hand, pushing against the sensitive nerves of the head. He’s dripping. Thick globs of precum coat his fingers.

Sylvain sighs. His head lolls back. Dimitri swallows the sound down, much like the rest of him. He licks readily against his open mouth like Sylvain is some feast, bouncing him in his lap until he draws tense.

“Come on big guy,” Sylvain teases, as he clenches around him. “Fill me up, Dimitri. I want to feel you for days.”

“ _Syl-“_

A heady flush darkens the prince’s complexion, and he holds him close. He ruts into him one last time before he groans. His head falls to Sylvain’s shoulder, and his load coats him hot and sticky from the inside.

Sylvain hums a noise of resounding satisfaction, pumping his cock through Dimitri’s orgasm. When he’s milked dry, Sylvain is tipped over, back hitting the ground. Dimitri slips out of him, and he can feel himself leaking.

Dimitri’s body covers his own. The sound that escapes him devolves into a particularly despairing moan when Dimitri wrenches over his cock, jerking him off raw and rough. Until its Sylvain that cries out, cumming in thick streams across his stomach.

* * *

It’s nearly an hour later. An hour of terrible, awful silence as Sylvain quietly cleans himself up, trying to ignore how heavily his body fights his every move. The storm has dissipated. Its but a drizzle, and the gray clouds leave the land dark.

Sylvain manages to redress himself in nearly ruined clothes, and Dimitri is once again encased in armor.

“Can you walk.” Dimitri says, not really asking. He stares straight ahead to the forest.

Sylvain snorts. “Not after that.”

“Then I will carry you back.”

He flashes his hands in front of him. “No, no. That was a joke, Dimitri. Remember how that works?”

He scowls.

Right. Right, no humor now. Not that the old Dimitri had a good sense of one. Too serious and cheesy.

“I can walk.” He thinks. His legs feel slightly steadier than those of a doe. “I might need a little help.”

Dimitri grumbles, but it’s not too severe, and eventually, he offers his shoulder in a gesture that takes Sylvain by surprise.

“Ah, thanks.” He mutters.

“Do not thank me. This is no kindness.”

Isn’t it?

Sylvain is very much alive. Very much having some sort of _moment_ with Dimitri. Whether good or bad, he still can’t place. But it’s better than silence. Better than a prince communing with the dead. Because as fate would have it, life still courses through Sylvain’s veins.

“I will not have another dying in my stead. If you so wish for it, leave. Because as long as I still breath, you will not fall.”

It’s strange. As cloudy as Dimitry’s judgement is and his blind focus on revenge, it sounds almost noble. The kind of thing Sylvain thinks is worth dedicating his life to.


End file.
